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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25514158">The Book Fair</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eigon/pseuds/Eigon'>Eigon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, various antiquarian booksellers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:08:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,045</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25514158</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eigon/pseuds/Eigon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>While living in retirement in the South Downs, Crowley takes Aziraphale to a Book Fair.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Book Fair</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The booksellers mentioned are real.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley had no real interest in attending a book fair, but as soon as Aziraphale read in the local paper that one was happening in the nearest cathedral city to their miraculously spacious cottage on the South Downs, he wanted to go.<br/>
</p><p>
"I know I've retired from all that sort of thing, my dear," he said, over the top of the morning paper as he neatly finished the last slice of toast and marmalade, "but there might be one or two interesting volumes...."  His voice trailed off.  Maybe he was aware that he had started to sound just a little – needy, and wheedling.<br/>
</p><p>
Crowley stretched bonelessly.  "Why not?  The Bentley needs a run anyway."<br/>
</p><p>
He was rewarded with one of Aziraphale's dazzling smiles.  "Oh, thank you, my dear.  I know it won't be much fun for you, but...."<br/>
</p><p>
"I'm sure I'll find something to entertain myself," Crowley drawled.</p><p>~</p><p>Which is how Anthony J Crowley found himself in a large hall full of antiquarian books, arranged on many small stalls in teetering piles, gleaming leather spines and decorated covers carefully positioned to catch the light from small spotlights.  The men in charge of the stalls - and they were almost all men, and almost all white – looked surprisingly similar in their tweed jackets and colourful waistcoats.  There were more bow ties in the room than Crowley had seen in any other gathering that wasn't a formal ball.  He wondered if the booksellers were trying to look like Aziraphale or if Aziraphale was blending in with the booksellers in his fashion choices.<br/>
</p><p>
As soon as Aziraphale stepped into the room he took a deep breath.  The air smelt of old leather and leather polish, with an undercurrent of slight mustiness.  He smiled one of his dazzling smiles, and darted off along a row of stalls.  "I must just say hello to Mr Sotheran," he said, over his shoulder.<br/>
</p><p>
Crowley waved him away.  "Don't mind me," he said, almost to himself as he watched Aziraphale bustle away, "I only drove you here."<br/>
</p><p>
He lurked at the edge of the hall, watching.  He'd seen Aziraphale in the shop, of course, over many years, dealing with the customers who managed to gain entrance on the odd occasions that the shop was actually open, but he'd thought – well, that it was just Aziraphale.  Looking round the room, he could see a dozen interactions between bookseller and customer that looked exactly like the ones he'd witnessed in the shop in Soho.<br/>
</p><p>
Aziraphale had squeezed round a table to the bookseller side of a stall and was cradling a large volume reverently in his arms.  He was talking to the bookseller with an air of authority that Crowley had rarely seen in him, and yet which fitted him exactly in this setting.  Here, Aziraphale wasn't a junior angel being bullied by his boss (Satan!  How Crowley hated that asshole Gabriel!), or an angel interacting carefully with a human.  In this room, Aziraphale was an expert among experts, and they were all on an equal footing.  While they were talking about books, Aziraphale could be completely himself, and let his guard down.<br/>
</p><p>
Crowley was just a little bit jealous.<br/>
</p><p>
There had been no library in Heaven before the Fall, he mused – there had been no humans to write books.  And he couldn't imagine a library in Heaven now, from what he'd seen of the gleaming austerity of it on his last brief visit.  None of the angels he'd met looked the type to curl up with a good book.<br/>
</p><p>
There was a library in Hell, and it regularly reduced the souls of librarians to tears.  Great heaps of books lay around in disorder and chaos.  That was the point of it, of course, to torture the human souls.  He couldn't imagine Hastur or Ligur curling up with – in their case, a bad book – at the end of a hard day's tempting.<br/>
</p><p>
And yet Aziraphale had created something beautiful in his bookshop, the Heavenly elegance of the dome balanced with the comfortable disorder of the books (though he could always find exactly what he was looking for) making the shop a place of joy and relaxation.  The comfortable sofas helped too, of course.  He had created something similar in the cottage they now shared, making it a place where they could both relax and be themselves.<br/>
</p><p>
Creativity, Crowley thought.  It was what set humanity apart from Heaven and Hell, and at least some of it seemed to have rubbed off on him and Aziraphale.  When the last battle between Heaven and Hell happened, as he was sure it would eventually, he thought that creativity might be the trait that would save humanity, whoever won the War.<br/>
</p><p>
"Ah, there you are!"  Aziraphale appeared at Crowley's elbow, beaming.  "Not too bored, I hope?"<br/>
</p><p>
Crowley shrugged.  "You know – people watching."<br/>
</p><p>
"Shall we go and get some liquid refreshment?" Aziraphale asked.  "The lovely gentleman from Francis Edwards tells me that there's a very good real ale pub round the corner."<br/>
</p><p>
"You know me, angel – never refuse a drink," Crowley said.</p><p>~</p><p>They were sitting at a small table in a traditionally Victorian saloon bar, with etched glass at the windows and a small fireplace adding a cozy ambience, with a sharp scent of coal, before Aziraphale mentioned the brown paper bag he was carrying.  "I didn't see anything I was particularly interested in," he said.  He slid the bag across the table, between their two pints of beer.  "I thought you might possibly like this, though?" he added hopefully.<br/>
</p><p>
Crowley lifted the edge of the paper bag with one finger.  The book inside was bound with black leather, a little frayed around the edges.  He cocked one eyebrow quizzically and slid the book out of the wrapping.<br/>
</p><p>
"Oh – angel!"  He grinned.  The front cover of the book had a picture in gilt of a cobra displaying its hood, below the gilt title "Snakes of the World".  Crowley opened the book, carefully since Aziraphale was watching him anxiously.  At intervals through the cramped Victorian text were colour plates depicting a variety of snakes.<br/>
</p><p>
"Tipped in – lovely condition," Aziraphale said, to break the silence.<br/>
</p><p>
"It's perfect, angel."  He lifted his glass in a toast.  "To Snakes of the World, wherever they may be."</p>
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